Out of the Darkness
by Madebyme
Summary: The darkness covers every inch of the planet, and it's up to the Winchester's to save the world from Amara and her infected. Alternative fic for season 11.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all the standard disclaimers apply.

 **Summary:** The darkness covers every inch of the planet, and it's up to the Winchester's to save the world from Amara and her infected. Alternative fic for season 11.

 **Warnings:** Dark themes and violence

 **A/N:** This was written for the 2016 springfling challenge for alethiometry for the prompt _talking to ghost(s) through a ouija board 2.01 style_. A huge thank you to my wonderful beta harrigan for all her help and hard work. I've tinkered so all mistakes are mine.

 **Out of the Darkness**

The second the yellow beam of the flashlight starts to stutter, the darkness is ready, sprinting towards Dean, crowding around him. With shaking hands, Dean smacks the flashlight against the palm of his calloused hand, his heart pounding. As a kid, it was Sam who was afraid of the dark, now it's Dean.

The flashlight flicks back to life, the full beam cutting a path through the darkness that now covers every inch of the world. Dean takes a breath, his hands still shaking, but pushes on, one foot in front of the other as he walks down the road.

"All I have to do is get to her. Right, Sammy?" his voice croaks, and he coughs at the darkness that slips down his throat like a vessel-less demon.

There's no answer of course; no warm body by his side. Sometimes Sam's here with him, willing him on. But right now Dean's alone; it's just easier to pretend that he isn't.

"Keep following the damned tether." That's what it feels like, a tether between Amara and his soul, and he knows that if he keeps following it they'll be reunited.

He needs to rest. With no sun in the sky to guide him, and no watch to measure time, he judges a hard day's walking by the feel of his body; the ache of muscles from walking through tar-thick darkness for hours, and the heaviness of his weary lungs.

Sometimes he'll bunk near the husk of tree by the side of the road, or a thicket of dead bushes, maybe an abandoned car if he finds one. But there's been nothing for miles, nothing that he can see anyway, just an endless stretch of empty blacktop shrouded in darkness. It's too risky to bunk in buildings; he's not sure why some of the infected are still around, but he's stumbled across them sometimes when he's scavenging for extra flashlights, batteries, and supplies. Dean wonders if it's too late; if he's the last man standing, the last of human kind on Earth. He dreams sometimes that deep underground, or high on the hills, there's a small group of uninfected survivors, waiting for it to be over. One way or another.

He stumbles to the side of the road, and collapses heavily onto the dry dirt. The duffle slides down his shoulder, and he uncurls the thin camping mattress and rolls onto it. With the flashlight by his side, he pulls out the ouija board from the duffle.

Once upon a time, so long ago that Dean can barely remember, Sam bought it so that he could talk to Dean's spirit; now Dean uses it to talk to Sam.

After years stashed in Baby's trunk, the board is battered and used, but now it's also covered in blood magic; runes and sigils painted in a mixture of Sam and Dean's combined blood, and a whole bunch of other stuff that Billie told him when she concocted this little deal, but he was barely functioning back then, back when Sam was dead and all alone in the Empty.

Dean repeats the Latin that Billie gave him, memorised from daily use, sometimes more than that if it's a bad day, if he's losing his way, and forgetting why he's doing this. Because even though Sam's dead, he's still all Dean's got, still the only thing in the world that can keep him going in this hell on earth. Billie must have known that when she offered them this chance; all she wanted in return was Amara gone; she can't reap if everything is dead.

The runes and sigils on the ouija board glow a bright orange, a speck of light in the inky poison that surrounds him. Dean puts the plastic heart-shaped planchette on the board, and lightly places his fingers on top.

There's a jolt of power that shoots through his body like a firecracker, lighting him up from within. He smiles, wide and honest; this is the best part of his day. "Hey Sammy. So how's it going in the Empty?"

He feels the plastic hum under his fingers, and then it's shooting around the board; Sam's pretty fast now, and Dean has to concentrate as the planchette spells out words, letter by letter.

 _It's empty. Just like it was the last time you asked._

Even though Dean can't see Sam, he can imagine the bitch face, and his grin widens; just like the old days.

 _You OK?_

"You know me, Sammy. Just taking it step by step, day by day, until it's done."

 _That bad, huh?_

Sam's not even here, and he can still see right through Dean like no one else.

Dean's smile drops, his gut churning. "What if I can't do this any more? What if I-"

He looks down as the planchette shoots across the board.

 _I've got an idea, and Billie's helping me with it. You just do your part and find Amara. We can do this, Dean. Together._

Dean swallows. "There's something else. For the last few miles the link feels different. I think she's close."

 _That's good, right? It means this is nearly over._

"I've been dreaming about her too. She's standing in the road and I just walk to her, spellbound, and her arms are wide open, and she's telling me to come to her, that together we can create a new world." Dean takes a breath, his mouth bone dry, sweat beading on his forehead even though he's freezing cold underneath all the layers of clothes he's wearing. "And I do, Sam, I go to her and then all there is is darkness, pitch-black nothing, like she's swallowed me whole."

 _That's not gonna happen. I won't let it._

Dean huffs. "And what are you gonna do about it, huh? You're in the Empty!"

 _Blood magic lets us communicate across the veil. We just need something to boost that power. You're my brother, Dean, and we're in this together; you and me._

Dean sniffs, scrubbing his grimy hands down his rusty beard. He feels weary, tired deep down to the marrow of his bones. "Chick flick much?"

 _Get some rest. Call me later, Jerk._

"Over and out, Bitch."

He packs the board away in his duffle, chews on some jerky, sips at whatever's in his flask, and exchanges his flashlight for a longer battery life LED version. Lying back on the mat, he uses the duffle as a pillow, hands gripping the flashlight to his chest like it's his lifeline, the beam pointing down to his feet. He can't sleep without it on.

This is the worst time, trying to sleep when he has no way of knowing what's out there, feeling the darkness creeping closer, edging nearer and nearer like it wants to smother him. He forces his eyes closed, and wills himself to rest.

* * *

He dreams of Sam, and how he lost him.

They're walking the same road, with the same quest, surrounded by the same claustrophobic darkness. But in his dream Dean knows that Sam's infected, he knows that Sam's time is nearly over. Maybe he knew that back then too, but didn't want to see it.

Sam stumbles on the road, long legs buckling and knees smacking into crumbling tarmac. The beam of the flashlight shows his dark eyes, and the bulging black veins on his neck and face that criss-cross his skin like a spider's web.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Sam's saying it over and over, and he's holding his gun, and Dean doesn't want this to be real, doesn't want this for his little brother who was always supposed to have more.

Then they're both holding the gun, fingers entwined around the trigger. They've talked about this, about what has to happen when one of them gets infected, because there is no cure, not in this pitch-black world; here nothing can defeat the darkness and its infection.

It was supposed to be him. Not Sam. Never Sam.

He doesn't know who pulls the trigger, but the gun goes off, and Dean's alone in the darkness.

* * *

Dean's screaming when he jackknifes awake, heart hammering, his body covered in cold sweat. He can't breathe, and he waves the flashlight from side to side, feeling like he's surrounded, hemmed in, and totally screwed.

In his head he hears Sam telling him to breathe, that it's OK. Dean's gaze is still darting in all directions, seeing impossible shapes in the darkness that creep closer and closer.

He rolls up the mat, slings the duffle over his shoulder, and runs. The beam of the flashlight bobs up and down as his booted and blistered feet pound against the road, his lungs squeezing tight as the air gets thinner, his vision smearing like wipers on a dirty window screen.

Eventually he has to stop, his upper body bent in half as he struggles to gasp for a breath. He's too weak to carry on, muscles and fat wasted away from lack of nourishment.

It's then that he feels it, a tug in his gut that pulls him forward, step by step. Something settles deep inside, a feeling he's felt before; a blissful, yet uneasy sense of calm.

Gritting his teeth, he pushes against the need to get closer, and collapses to his knees. He needs Sam, and fast, and the only way to do that is through the blood magic connection. Pulling the ouija board from his bag, he forces the Latin to spill from his uncooperative lips, voice shaking as he stutters out the blood magic spell, the orange glow of the sigils warming his face.

"SAM!"

He doesn't need to look up to know that Amara's out there. But he feels himself involuntarily lift his head, watching as a black human-shaped cloud emerges from the darkness, feet gliding silently over the road.

He's drawn towards her, and he can't fight it, his body suddenly full of strength that's not his own. The flashlight illuminates the womanly curves of a black humanoid shape, her arms wide open, welcoming him, beckoning him to come to her. And he wants to; he wants to bury his face in her neck and collapse into her arms. He wants this to be over.

She's right in front of him now, her hand stroking his cheek lovingly, and he closes his eyes, relishing every moment of her touch.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he hears a whisper in his ear, a voice that he knows and trusts more than himself, and it's getting louder and louder. There's a shiver down his spine, like something is by his side, but all he can see is black darkness.

He leans in to her willingly, her arms holding him tight, and for the first time in a long time he's content. But then he hears his brother's voice telling him that he has a job do, that they have a plan, and now is the time. Then he feels something smooth and wooden, something ancient and all-powerful, as it's placed in his hand.

Like a jolt of electricity, something pierces through her silent siren call, and all he can think about is Sam's dead body in his arms for hours, for days, and how it's all Amara's fault; she took Sam from him.

He fists the wood – no, it's a Hand of God – and then there's a flood of light so bright it feels like the sun has finally found the earth. Dean drives the wood into her human-shaped chest, pushing and pushing until he knows it's lodged deep where her heart would be.

He pulls away from her, and she's wailing like a banshee, shattering the tether he once shared with her. The light around them glows brighter and brighter, the heat soaring, and Dean's screaming now too, burning along with her, and he welcomes the end that he knows is coming. The air ripples around them, an epicentre of a giant explosion, and then there's nothing.

* * *

Time passes, and Dean's not sure where he is, but then through the dust and dirt dancing in front of his eyes, he sees a fallen flashlight, its beam illuminating the blood-stained ouija board by his feet.

He stands still, awestruck, as the darkness around him thins, growing lighter and more translucent. Far on the horizon he sees the sun begin to rise, poking up from behind a mountain range, painting everything with warm hues of orange, yellow, and a hazy pink.

Dean's not sure if he can believe his eyes, but he sees a silhouetted figure walk towards him; freakishly tall, with wide shoulders and slim hips, too-long hair curling around the nape of his neck.

He blinks and then Sam's right in front of him, and Dean forgets to breathe for a second.

A sense of peace and relief washes over him; it's all over, they're done, and it's finally time for them to rest, the two of them together.

"Dean." Sam says, eyes shiny, his smile soft with a hint of dimples, and it's the best damn thing that Dean's ever seen. This is his heaven.

They pull each close, their hands fisting in shirts and jackets as they cling to each other, fingers bruising and stinging, but they don't let go. They'll never let go.

The End

 **A/N:** I hope you enjoyed this one, it's a bit dated now, but I'm playing catchup! Thank you for stopping by :)


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